


Stars

by AthenaKyle



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, I apologize for the feels, angst angst and more angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AthenaKyle/pseuds/AthenaKyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to look at the stars without crying. The heavens viewed with her had been magical and bright. Strange how the same sky appeared so different now that she was gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Numb. There was no other word for how he was feeling, hell he wasn’t feeling, he was numb. He would have laughed at the fact that he had finally turned into the robot they all teased him he was. But he was numb, and didn’t have the energy to laugh. She’d hate the way he was acting, all robotic and numb, but those non-emotions protected him; they were far better than the alternative.

He looked back at the unmade bed and contemplated crawling under the covers and never come out. Falling into dreams, where everything was perfect, where he could pretend his whole world hadn’t just fallen apart.

He looked down at his suit, mildly surprised that he was wearing the one of his she loved the most. The one he only saved for special occasions, like undercover charity balls, or S.H.I.E.L.D science galas, or the rare date night. The suit held such happy memories it seemed wrong to taint it with a funeral, but he couldn’t bring himself to change. 

Standing up he walked the short distance to the mirror, had he been paying attention, he wouldn’t have recognized his own reflection. 

Instead he was on autopilot and just went through the motions, his fingers failing him as he adjusted his tie, it had been so long since he’d had to do it himself. He felt his armor crack as the memory of soft yet strong and agile fingers fussed over his tie, knotting it in a perfect double windsor.

He’d never perfected that knot, he always meant to have her teach him, but he’d always get distracted by the way her tongue would stick out adorably as she concentrated on tying his tie.

Sighing heavily he closed his eyes and could practically feel her standing in front of him, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder before smiling up at him, brown eyes practically golden with joy and love, oh god, the love.

How on earth was he supposed to go on with out that? Without her? Why had she gone where he could not follow?  


_I lit a fire with the love you left behind_  
 _It burned wild and crept up the mountain side_  
 _I followed your ashes into outer space_  
 _I can’t look out the window_  
 _I can’t look at this place_

  
Suddenly the room was spinning and it felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of it. Stumbling for the door he hurried out, slamming it shut behind him, he leaned heavily against the solid oak.

The hallway wasn’t any more of a comfort as the walls were adorned with photos of happier times as well as several artistically magnified photos of cells, that looked like distant galaxies and various other celestial bodies.

He had bought them for her 25th birthday. She had told him it was the perfect gift, a combination of two of her scientific loves. Biology and Astronomy.

She had surprised him with her love of the night sky. He knew that most women enjoyed looking up and seeing the sparkling dots of light that looked like diamonds strewn across blue velvet. But that’s not what fascinated her. She loved the myths and legends, possibilities of alien worlds (so long as they weren’t Chitauri) and the idea that somewhere out there someone else was looking up (or was it down?) at her.

When they first got together, she had thought it a travesty that he didn’t know anything about the myths behind all the constellations, and she had gone about educating him, pointing them out, telling him the story of some God or Goddess, or poor mortal schmuck who had been cursed to the heavens.

She could’ve been lying to him and making up fake constellations for all Grant cared. He knew she wasn’t because she was far to concerned with scientific accuracy to be anything but truthful, but he would’ve listened to her recite the user manual to the night night pistol if it meant being near her.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look at the night sky without wanting to cry.  


_I can’t look at the stars,_  
 _They make me wonder where you are_  
 _Stars, up on heavens boulevard_  
 _And if I know you at all_  
 _I know you’ve gone too far_  
 _So I can’t look at the stars_

  
He made it a point to always know when the next meteor shower was, and where the best place  and time to watch it would be. Schedule permitting, they’d sneak away to watch the heavens put on their own spectacular version of a fireworks show.

On their first anniversary he had taken her to see the Northern Lights, and the Southern Lights on their second anniversary. He had asked her to marry him during the peak of Haley’s comet trip around the earth. She had said yes before he had even gotten the ring out of his pocket, and promised him that the next time Haley’s comet came around they’d be watching it with a whole slew of grandkids around. He hadn't said anything then, but he couldn't wait to start a family with her, he was positive if they had a daughter she'd be a miniture version of Jemma, adorable and brilliant, and absolutely a daddy's girl, she'd be the death of him alright.

Even after they were married, as often as they could he’d loose himself just listening to her tell the stories of the constellations, and their origins. It hadn’t mattered that she’d already told him the story of Cassiopeia a thousand times, or that he could recite her telling of Orion verbatim. 

He would simply lay there, head in her lap as they stared out the Bus window at the heavens, listening to her talk about the various celestial bodies. She’d told him about the Asgardian views on space, about their bifrost, and her dream to one day experience it, the excitement in her voice much like a child on christmas morning. 

He had always meant to ask Coulson to see if Thor would allow her to travel the bifrost, just once. But he always assumed he’d have time, after all they were fairly young, they were supposed to have their whole lives ahead of them.

But now it was too late. And the night sky no longer seemed like a place of infinite possibilities, now it was an endless void of darkness and what could have beens.  


 _All those times we looked up at the sky_  
 _Looking out so far it felt like we were flying_  
 _Now I’m all alone in the dark of night_  
 _The new moon is shining_  
 _But I can’t see the light_  
 

Sinking to the floor he struggled to breathe, as everything sank in, Jemma was gone, and there was nothing that he or anyone else could do to bring her back. Burying his face in his hands, he felt the cold metal of his wedding band touch his cheek and contemplating ripping the ring off and throwing it across the room.

He had failed her as a husband. He was supposed to protect her, but just like the Chitauri virus all those years ago, he hadn’t been able to protect her from what he could not see.

He looked at the simple wedding band that seemed to mock him, reminding him that he had failed the one person that mattered most.

He could practically hear her voice in his head, her haughty British accent at it’s most posh, berating him, telling him that her death was in no way his fault and that if she had to choose between living or loving him, she wouldn’t change a thing.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to ward off the tears that were falling, blazing hot trails of despair down his chiseled cheeks.

He might have stayed there forever if it hadn’t been for the sound of footsteps approaching. Looking up he didn’t even bother to try and hide the fact that he had been crying. His wife just died, he figured he was entitled to it.

However the person that stood in front of him was literally the last person he expected.

“If you’re going to try and convince me to stay with S.H.I.E.L.D, don’t bother, I already told Coulson I quit.”

Fury’s second in command raised an eyebrow, “I was informed you handed in your resignation. However both Fury and Coulson refused to accept it.” she clasped her hand behind her back, “You’re one of our best Agent Ward, as was your wife. S.H.I.E.L.D would hate to lose both of you.” Grant snorted, quite frankly he didn’t give a shit what S.H.I.E.L.D wanted. “She wouldn’t want you to just give up.”

Grant was on his feet in the blink of an eye, Agent Hill pinned against the wall with impressive speed, “DO NOT PRESUME TO TELL ME WHAT MY WIFE WOULD HAVE WANTED.” the rage in his eyes was almost maniacal. “You didn’t know her.” he growled, “You have no idea what I’m going through.” he released his hold and backed away.

“You’re right, I didn’t know her.” She stared the specialist down, “But this?” she motioned to the unkempt home, this is what she would have wanted? This is how you honor her memory? By abandoning those closest to you? You’re not the only one grieving.”

Maria felt the air shift, the moment the words left her mouth and knew she had overstepped.

“Get out.” his voice was dark, and cold. It sent a shiver through the veteran agent.

“Grant,” she tried to placate him.

“Get. OUT!” he yelled, stalking towards her as she stepped back towards the door. “Get the fuck out and don’t ever come back!” he roared.

Grant had been raised to never hit a woman, even if he was in combat against one, he always managed to find ways to incapacitate his attacker without landing a blow. However that tightly controlled rage was threatening to crack, and Maria must have sensed it because she simply nodded and left. Leaving Grant standing alone in the foyer of his home.

Once again Grant contemplated going back to bed, perhaps when he woke up this would all be a horrible nightmare. However the knock on the door and voice that filtered through dashed any hope that he was stuck in a horribly cruel dream.

Opening the door, he stared at perhaps the only other person on the planet who had an inkling of what he was feeling.

“It’s time.” the accent was muted, as if he was loosing it without Jemma to sound off on.

Taking a deep breath he nodded and followed the Scot to the car.

 

The service went by in a blur. He vaguely remembered Captain America shaking his hand and sharing an anecdote about Jemma, the kind doctor who had helped rescue him from the ice. He didn’t remember seeing Natasha, but he found a note in his pocket, a simple ‘I’m sorry’ written in her surprisingly girlie handwriting. 

Jemma had been laid to rest in an open field, not far from the slingshot, where she would always have a clear and unobstructed view of the heavens. Coulson had been the one to suggest it, and Grant knew it would’ve been what she wanted.

He stayed at the grave long after everyone had gone. Fitz had left him the keys to the car, but Grant didn’t really care, he didn’t want to go home. There was nothing left there for him.

He stared at the headstone and fell to his knees, finally let the floodgates go, as he sobbed, heavy, gulping spasms that threatened to burst his lungs.

He palmed the smooth marble, feeling the cursed words beneath his hand:

 

 

Here lies: 

  
**_Jemma Elaine Ward_**  
 _September 11, 1987 - March 3, 2019_  
Beloved Wife, Mother  
and friend, who lived  
life to the fullest

and

**_Celest Philippa Ward_ **  
_March 3, 2019_  
 _Beloved daughter_

 

…who never got the chance too

 

_And I can’t look at the stars_  
 _They make me wonder where you are_  
 _Up on heavens boulevard_  
 _And if I know you at all_  
 _I know you’ve gone too far_  
 _So I can’t look at the stars_

 


	2. I'm calling out but you can't hear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, my original attempt was to have a fluffy little epilogue where Jemma and Ward would get to live happily ever afterlife, and then my muse said NO, and this happened. Sorry again for the feels. Someone should really just take my laptop away...

Jemma is scared. She's never seen him this broken and for the first time she’s at a complete loss on how to soothe his pain. 

She wonders what the hell could have happened between now and her leaving work half an hour ago that could have caused this level of destruction and heartache.

Half an hour ago, he had called her, to tell her he had gotten back early and was going to fix her something fabulous for dinner because she was already baking him a bun in her oven, so he would do the cooking for her.

She had laughed ridiculously loud at his horrible pun as tears of joy gathered in her eyes. 

When she had first found out she was pregnant, she had been removed from active duty and was now working at a pharma-tech company (that was really a front for S.H.I.E.L.D), and while she did miss the team and being on the bus, she found she quite enjoyed the typical 9 to 5 as it were. Not permanently mind you, but she wouldn’t mind doing it for another few months until little Orion or Celeste entered the world.

He was wholly against the names, even if most of their shared life events had happened during some of the most stunning astronomical occurrences, _We’re not naming our son Draco or Scorpius, I don’t care how popular Harry Potter names are becoming or how bloody charming Tom Felton is. NO._

She loved to tease him by bringing up various astronomy related names, _Ophiuchus, do you want him to get his ass kicked on the playground?_ and telling him that he could name the baby whatever he wanted, she’d just have Skye hack the database and change it later.

When Skye laughed and backed her up he had been amused but mildly offended that his young grasshopper was siding with his wife rather than her S.O.

But that had been ages ago. Jemma struggled to think in the now. What had happened now?

Their dinning room table, with its candles and dinner plates is turned on its side. Their fancy China set that May had given them lying fractured on the hardwood. Food smudges the gorgeous floor runner they had received as a wedding gift from the Moroccan field office, indicating he had made beef wellington, one of her favorites. 

And as she stands in the middle of it all, trying in vein not to get anything on her favorite Kate Spade flats, she’s tempted to pick up the discarded wellington and dig in. She’s pregnant and eating for two, and it looks salvageable.

Their home is a complete disaster she realizes as she looks around, the damage has not been contained in the dining room. He's destroyed everything, he could get his hands on, nothing looks as if it was spared from his wrath. And there, looking incredibly like a lost little boy is her husband, leaning against the far wall legs stretched out in front of him as he stares unseeingly at his bloodied knuckles.

 

She’s known him for 8 years, been his wife for 3, and in all that time she thought she had seen ever side, every facet of his personality, but this, this is new. This is far darker than anything she’d seen before, worse than even the Berserker staff incident.

His knuckles are bruised, bleeding, and his olive skin is splotched red as if torn between rage and pain. His breath is coming out in short ragged pants, his shoulders are shaking but there are no tears even though his eyes are red. 

She doesn’t know this man. And she wonders where her Grant has gone, where had the man who faced anything that came his way and fixed it, gone? 

Where was _her_ specialist?

Kneeling gently beside him, she doesn’t touch him, doesn’t want to startle him. He’s in a fog and she knows that he’d never intentionally hurt her, but she also knows he’s a highly trained agent that could simply shoot first and ask questions later.

“Grant?” her voice is soft, and it appears as if he can’t hear her, so she tries again, a little louder this time, “Grant?”

He takes a big shuddering breath, but still no answer.

Helpless. She hadn’t felt this way since the Chitauri incident. But this time it’s worse, it’s a thousand times worse, because it’s not her that’s damaged and broken, it’s him. 

She tries to talk to him, but he still doesn’t acknowledge her, won’t even look at her. 

She risks touching him, prepared to coil back incase his training kicks in and he comes out swinging, but he doesn’t even register her touch. She runs her hand through his hair, nimble fingers threading through the disheveled black mass, before coming to rest on his cheek, but she still gets no reaction. 

Bringing her other hand to her mouth she realizes that she’s been crying, when had that happened? 

Now she's really worried. What could've happened? 

The horror hits her like a brick wall, “Grant, was it the team? Did something happen to the team?” she goes pale and waits with bated breath, not sure how she’ll handle the news if in fact they’ve lost someone from their rag-tag family of a team.

He sighs, and shakes his head as he takes in a heavy, shaky breath and rubs his face. She releases the breath she was holding as she practices her lamaze breathing to get her heart back to normal.

He stands up suddenly, moving away from her so quickly she should be offended.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.” she follows after him as he walks through their home. His legs are so much longer than hers and he’s not carrying 15lbs of baby in front so the gap between them grows.

He walks across the room, kicks debris out of his way, not seeming to care that he just destroyed a priceless Asgardian wedding vase.

Now she’s just getting annoyed, honestly who in their right mind ignores their pregnant wife?!

“I wish you had told me you were planning on redecorating. I could have grabbed somethings from the garbage bins at work to help spruce up the place.” She folds her arms across her chest, the bump of their child making it the perfect place to rest them.

Her accent is in full force, a sure sign that she’s upset, however she feels bad for her remark when he stops at the little victorian writing desk she had found at a flea market and absolutely fell in love with, and releases another shuddering breath.

She had always thought that in this technical age, physically writing letters was becoming a dying art, and when ever she had a spare moment, she would write letters to friends, and family, doing her part in keeping the Letter Writing Revolution alive. 

Grant would simply chuckle and tell her she was adorable to want to keep something so archaic alive, but she knew he secretly adored getting mail from her, especially when they were separated while he was on a mission. 

She’s surprised that in the entire federal disaster area that is their home, it’s the one thing that remains untouched, the one thing that’s not damaged.

She hurries to him then, or waddles to him as quickly as she can and wraps her arms around his waist resting her head against his back. “Hey, it’s ok. Whatever happened it’s going to be alright.” her voice is soft and tender, “Just let go Grant, I’ll catch you, so go a head and let go.”

She hopes her words are having an affect on him as she can feel his heart skip a beat, his pulse is erratic and if she wasn’t absolutely convinced he was the epitome of perfect physical health she’d be concerned he was going to have a heart attack. 

The silence is deafening and for the first time she understands the expression about silence being to loud.

She hates it.

She wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. But he’s so much taller, broader than her that she’d only wind up shaking herself against him. She wants to demand he tell her what’s going on, that she wants nothing more than to help fix this, fix him. 

She doesn’t know how to reach him, and worse yet it’s like he doesn’t want her to. 

But when she watches him turn away from her, and sit at the base of the stairs she puts her foot down. 

His eyes are clear now, and he’s taking in the damage he caused, cataloguing everything in his head. He still hasn’t acknowledge her presence when he sighs in resignation and his expression goes neutral. He's shutting down, going inside himself.

Fuck that noise.

"No," she argues her accent back full force. “Talk to me…” her voice trembles, anger giving way to desperation. 

"You promised," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, shattered. It’s the first time since she arrived home that he’s spoken, but his voice doesn’t sound right. She’s never heard it that broken before.

She cocks her head to the side in confusion.

And then, like a fire extinguisher to the back of the head she remembers.

She had just left the office, more than ready to go home and devour whatever delicious concoction her husband had whipped up.

There was a smile on her lips as she replayed their conversation in her head.

" _I'm leaving the office now darling, I'll be home in a half-hour, tops._ "

_“That’ll be perfect, dinner will be done in 25. I made your favorite._ ”

Her mouth had salivated at the thought, “ _I don’t see why S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t let me install a teleport device between our home and the office, it would make life much simpler._ ”

He laughed, _“Nevermind that it hasn’t been perfected yet and you might arrive with your parts in a Picasso-esque order.”_

She had scoffed in mock indignation, _“Are you saying you wouldn’t love me if I looked like Marie Therese?”_

_“Would you love me if I looked like Picasso?”_ he had countered.

_“No,”_ she giggled, _“But we all know that you’re the beauty and I’m the brains of this operation.”_

_“I beg to differ, you’re the beauty and I’m the brawn.”_ She knew without seeing him that he had puffed his chest out proudly.

_“That works.”_ she smiled as she reached her car, a bright yellow, Fiat 500L. _“I love you_.”

“ _Love you, too. See you soon_.”

But he wouldn’t see her soon, he would never see her again.

Like those horrible movies about kids trying to cheat death, the scene flashed before her eyes. 

The blinding headlights of the oncoming vehicle, as the decked out street racer swerved into her lane.

The blaring sound of her horn and the horrific crunching of metal, and shattering glass… 

Then nothing but darkness and silence.

Next thing she remembers is being here, in her home, seeing it in disarray as her husband, the love of her life, sat, but a shadow of the man she knew he was.

"You promised…" He swallows tightly. "You promised you wouldn't leave me…"

Though Jemma knows it’s impossible because it’s long stopped beating, she feels her heart falter, and while she hadn’t really believed in an afterlife, she’s simultaneously glad and devastated that she’s here. A guardian ghost to watch over the love of her life, to fulfill her promise to him.

“I haven’t…" she tells him, “and I _won’t_.” she promises, “We, won’t.” she rubs her belly cursing the fates for the cruel blow they’ve dealt. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I've told the story from both sides, I'm hoping my muse will finally allow me to write a ridiculously fluffy third and final installment. Sorry again for the feels. Also, this in based off a Chlollie fic by Tarafina, all credit for the idea goes to her, I just tweaked it to fit the AOS universe and this depressing story line.


	3. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a quarter of a century since Grant Ward lost his wife, and while he couldn't say he lived the last 25 years, he had definitely survived them. He was retiring today, and ready for whatever the fates had in store for him next.

He can’t explain it, and while his head knows it wants nothing to do with the home they shared happily, his heart is persuasive and before he knows it, he’s walking up the brick path towards the large royal blue door.

Sighing deeply Grant prepares himself to enter, taking a moment to collect himself, he almost chickens out when the strangest thing happens. The lock disengages and the door creaks open on its own.

Ever the agent, his gun is drawn at the unlocking of the door, and poised to shoot as it opens a sliver then stops. Nudging it open further with his foot, he quickly steps in, rounding on the door, only to find no one there.

He methodically goes through the rest of the house, clearing each room like a good agent would. It’s only when he returns to the living room that he realizes the house has been cleaned, the furniture righted, though most still bear the marks of his rage.

Holstering his weapon he looks around and finds a note on the dining room table.

_Jemma would have had a fucking fit if she came home and saw this disaster area.  
She wouldn’t want you to give up, so we’re going to make sure you don’t. For her._

_Take however long you need, but know that we expect to have you back at some point._

**_Be the man she knew you were._ **

That last line is what killed him. Because yes, on some level he knew that Jemma wouldn’t want him to just give up, to just stop caring, and as much as he wants to, he won’t because Coulson was right. Jemma believed he was a better man, and he was determined to prove her right.

So he pulls out his phone and sends a quick email to his team-no his family, because after all this time, after all they’ve gone through, that’s what they are. Family, and he realizes that he’s not the only one who lost Jemma.

_Thanks for cleaning up. I need a little time, but I promise I’ll be back._

Hitting send, he peeled off his coat, getting a whiff of himself as he did so, and he could practically hear Jemma telling him he smelled of elderberries.

That had him cracking a smile, Jemma and her love of Monty Python. He hadn’t really understood the humor outside of The Holy Grail, but she had adored them, so he had watched them all, laughing not at their humor, but with her, Jemma’s laugh had been infectious, and his heart squeezed painfully knowing he’ll never hear it again.

He’s a bit more level headed after the shower and shave, he’s still lost, and the grief is still crashing around him, but for some reason, here in their bedroom, it’s not unbearable.

Sitting on the bed, he looks to the side she used to sleep on and wonders if this ache in his chest will ever go away, if it will one day fade like the scent of her will. Deciding it would be best to take it one day at a time, he sighs deeply before lying down and falling into a dreamless sleep.

 

Grant Ward blinked, and just like that, 25 years have passed since Jemma died and their little rag-tag team had lost it’s bubbly biochemist. It went unsaid that she wouldn’t be replaced, Fitz wouldn’t have tolerated anyone else in their lab anyway.

Instead the team carried on, with her memory in their hearts, and her passion for a better world as their mission.

On the rare occasion that they needed someone with an extensive biochemical background Dr. Bruce Banner always made time to answer/solve/fix whatever they need him to. The team is startled the first time he arrives to help, looking to Coulson, assuming their leader brought him in.

But cool, calm and collected Coulson looks just as stunned as his team at the presence of the mild mannered alter-ego of The Hulk.

He solved their problem quickly but before he left, he stopped to offer his condolences to Grant.

“Your wife was brilliant and it’s because of her that I learned to control rage and the beast within. I owe her my life. Anytime you need a biochemist, I’ll be available.”

No wonder she had managed to calm him so effectively after the Berserker staff incident. She’d already handled the world’s angriest beast and lived to tell the tale.

The awe for his wife only depend.

But that had been so long ago. Back before he had more gray hair than black, back before he needed glasses to read those boring reports every morning, back before physical fights took him weeks to recover from. But those days were over now.

He had retired today.

There had been a big party thrown in his honor, and while he appreciated the sentiment, he much rather would have been some dive bar with just his original team.

Skye had grown into an incredible agent, one who’s scores had rivaled his own, and he couldn’t have been prouder to have been her S.O. She had been given her own team to lead nearly 10 years ago, and had been the only person to come to his mind when S.H.I.E.L.D. had asked him who he wanted to name as his successor.

Fitz had designed and built the teleport device that Jemma had joked about the day she died, and had donated all the proceeds from it to a scholarship in her name for young girls interested in the sciences. To this day, the JemmAWard (Jemma+Ward+Award) scholarship was responsible for educating 4 noble prize winners.

Melinda May was pushing 65 and she was still a BAMF that could kick his ass without breaking a sweat. She had retired from active duty long ago, but hadn’t fully let go of the super secret government agency. So now she trained the newbies. Making sure that everyone who was out in the field passed their physicals and were cleared for combat.

And Coulson? Well whatever had happened to him while he was in Tahiti was something akin to the fountain of youth. The man looked exactly the same as he had when he had come out of the shadows welcoming Grant to Level 7. All the doctors assured him he wasn’t immortal, and that he would eventually die someday, it just didn’t look like that day was anytime soon. It was a double edge sword for Coulson to hear, but he took it in stride, like he did everything else.

Coulson had been promoted to handling the Avengers when Fury retired which in turn meant that Grant was promoted to overseeing their old team. It had been an adjustment at first, going from being the specialist and the one in the middle of the action, to the one coordinating it all, but he was a master strategist and made the transition quite easily.

And while he couldn’t say that he lived the last 25 years, he definitely survived them, despite his early attempts to be as kamikaze as possible. After surviving his 4th mission that he most certainly should have died in, he figured he had a guardian angel looking out for him and decided to be less reckless, unless a member of his team was in danger.

It had been smooth sailing ever since, but now, he was tired, and ready. Ready for what, he didn’t know, but he knew that he was ready for whatever lie ahead.

Lying down he looked at his bedside table, where his favorite photo of Jemma sat, the last thing he saw before falling asleep and the first thing he saw in the morning when he woke up. The photo had been taken on their wedding day.

His niece had snapped a photo of the moment Jemma met his eyes as she began her walk down the aisle.

Now Grant had seen a lot of beautiful women in his day, his job as an international spy put him in the company of women so beautiful they’d bring a tear to your eye. However in all his years, in all his travels, he has never met a woman who could hold a candle to the beauty that his wife possessed both inside and out.

Sighing he picked up the photo, “Good night Jem.” he kissed it before putting it back and falling into a restless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me what my muse was thinking because I'm not sure where the hell that came from... aside from listening to Stars by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals on repeat. I wanted there to be some redemption at the end, but then this happened. Oops.


End file.
